Neil, Forever Young ...and Bowie

A Portland musician reports from the “other side”

by Nigel Norman O’Shea

I cleaned up puke at the Neil Young show. How did I get here?

Since taking the job at the Rosequarter as an “Events Housekeeper,” I’ve asked that question dozens of times. I initially embraced the job with complete denial. I’m a perfectly semi-educated college drop out. I’ve read some of the classics. I don’t deserve this!! For a while I looked down upon my fellow work mates, a motley crew to be sure. I felt I was in a caste far above them. Monosyllabic responses, and an inability to grasp my dry wit and obscure references, I was certain to be running this half-breed circus in a weeks time. Months later I still don the uniform. Black shoes and slacks, with the tri-colored shirt complete with name tag. Often I contemplate the amount of dignity saved if the organization would decide to give us plain black uniforms. But no. My red, black and white clown polo is testament to where I stand within the company; right at the foundation. I have given up the notion that I am above any of my coworkers. When I look at the numbers (in true rock and roll style) I am still a girlfriend away from sleeping on the street.

The reason for this soliloquy is not to beg sympathy for the working class, nor is it yet another grass roots confessional about the state of the nation since the current administration has come to power. This article is essentially a rock review by a serf in the entertainment industry. While neither Neil Young, Rod Stewart, nor David Bowie know who I am, I play an essential part in their performance. For when their biggest fan must urinate after three or four five dollar beers, it is I that provides him paper towels. When said fan spills a trail of said beer from concessions to his seat, it is I that mops up the puddle, so as not to allow him to slip and fall into the deep pockets of Microsoft’s first mate (I need not say his name). And, heaven forbid, if our dedicated patron is just so overwhelmed by not only drink, but by the sonic pageantry of the evening that he purges his supper, it is I that contains the mess.

In the industry we call it a “Bodily Fluid Spill”; at a party you would just throw a towel at the guy and tell him to clean it up himself. In a professional arena, cleaning up puke is a delicate and fastidious process, though. Like the carnivals of yore, sawdust is still the most basic tool of absorption, but instead of having it strewn on each and every walkway, we save it in neat little bags for just such an occasion. Fearful of any communicable diseases, we also must protect ourselves. The uniform for vomit is two pairs of gloves along with surgical booties to slip over our shoes, and if we need, a mask for the nose and mouth. Disinfectant spray is used liberally over the clumpy sawdust, and then two housekeepers work in tandem. One person holds the bright red biohazard bag, while the other, using what is the equivalent of paper salad tongs, scoops up the spill. Once the first bag is contained in a second biohazard bag, with all things contaminated safely stowed, including the first pair of gloves, we then take the bag to the Med-tech and throw it in the biohazard bin along with our second pair of gloves. Wash our hands thoroughly and we’re done!! Quite a process, no? I’m sure you understand why I am grateful I didn’t have to work the Korn show. Jesus, it would of been a corn show, all right.

Of course Bowie, Neil, and Mr. Stewart didn’t bring the puking crowd they used to, with David and Neil only scoring one a piece, and I would suspect the concessions over the booze in both cases.

So what kind of crowd did go to see these pillars of rock and roll heritage? While amongst my peers, pouring over used vinyl, I would declare them gods, and dream of being the shaggy haired extra in the background of the sleeve photos. But when their ages and their lowest ticket prices start running concurrent (50’s and 60’s), I’m not lining up when tickets go on sale. So who does pay?

Neil Young draws people who most closely resemble my parents. Children of the sixties, Sierra Club members, closet pot smokers, whose more conservative posture is only the ache of aging. Tie die or batique shirts, with sweat pants and fannie packs. Lots of bald men with ponytails and mustaches. Micro Beer swillers and spillers all. If you approached any one of these folks they would probably recount the many times through the 60’s and 70’s they saw Neil Young, or CSN&Y. Possibly a little scar tissue from past drug use, but overall a well behaved and friendly crowd.

Some brought their high school aged children, who walked a foot behind them, hands shoved in pockets, slouched in embarrassment. For while smokin’ bowls and hitting “Live Rust” at your buddy’s house is cool, hot dogs at the Rose Garden with your parents is not!!

Rod Stewart’s draw was reminiscent of a Las Vegas show. While Neil and David only required half the venue (Theater of the Clouds), Mr. Stewart, filled the whole arena. I call him “Mr. Stewart” because of the reputation that preceded him. While peons are not usually allowed on the event level during a concert, our supervisor was extra careful to make sure we did not “peek behind the curtain” so to speak. I assumed it was so we wouldn’t get a close look at him, and imagined droopy latex flesh, hanging on an animatronic frame, like “Meet Abe Lincoln” at Disneyland. Anyway, our boss used the adjective “fussy” to describe Mr. Stewart and then illustrated the description by telling us about the golf-cart they had to rent in order to carry him from his dressing room to the stage.

Roddie’s crowd was what I would term “older”. People dressed in their finest, drinking wine and cocktails. They struck me as the “Cher” crowd, more there for the show than an actual allegiance to the music. These are the type of people that have the most state of the art sound system at home, complete with outdoor speakers for their deck and jacuzzi, and then boast a meager collection of “best of” albums and soundtracks. The show didn’t disappoint this group though, as Rod Stewart has a veritable “butt-load” of recognizable hits.

A sub-sect of the Rod Stewart fans were the middle-aged “girlfriends”. Groups of women who most likely work together and share a crush on the sexy Rod. The local lite-rock station was handing out roses for these ladies to bestow as gifts. (These were collected in five gallon buckets in the aisles at the end of the show, how gracious!)

The merchandise table also boasted fifteen dollar thong panties that read “Tonight’s the Night. Rod Stewart”. Just imagining some of these women sporting the undies put me in danger of cleaning up my own bodily fluid spill.

The David Bowie crowd is a little harder to pin down. Being a fan, I was curious to see who my fellow Bowie followers were. No one was quite as freakish as I might have imagined, though there was one lone Ziggy Stardust, in a costume that looked like it was made out of cardboard painted with acrylics. There was a fair share of Alties (I made that term up), along with some lucky souls who might have actually seen some of David’s early tours. Since there was an opening band, this crowd was a little boozier than the others, trying to dim the lights of the concourse in their minds. Out of the mass appeared a group of thirty something, spiky haired, cigarette scarred, rocker types, with their bar hag girlfriends. I thought them a little out of place. Upon reflection, I realized these guys weren’t wearing costumes, but donning their uniforms, as well. I think they were actually The Dandy Warhols. Jesus, I thought, life on the road looks rough. No wonder Mick Jagger is so into yoga.

It’s hard to look cool carrying a broom and dust pan, with a walkie-talkie weighing down your belt. I count myself amongst this legion of fans, but then I catch a glimpse of my reflection. I remember that I am a servant, and that I am getting paid for this. I cannot feign the same jaded disinterest the bouncers at smaller venues have; yawning with their arms folded, earplugs in, bored. The truth is my job isn’t all rock and roll. I have provided the same service for basketball games, hockey games, RV shows, comic book conventions, Disney on Ice, the circus, the rodeo, professional wrestling, The Harlem Globetrotters, motocrosses, and monster trucks. And for these events, I am the ever helpful cleaning simp. I happily direct people to their seats. I am not the least bit put out by the double fisted chronic spillers, the Hansel and Gretel popcorn trailers, the look-down-the-nose season ticket holders. I take pride in my servitude like the respected butlers of old; I consider myself a part of the service lineage.

Concerts are different. My job at the Rose Garden during these shows is the ultimate juxtaposition of my fantasies and reality. While my wildest childhood dreams are playing larger than life in the arena, I am on the concourse scooping up the spilt rainbow ice of a snow cone; all the colors running together, turning black.

Don’t get me wrong, I do get to see a good portion of these shows, and get paid for it. Once the main event actually starts, usually their isn’t much to do but look busy. Checking over both shoulders for my supervisor, I will adjourn to a vomitory (yes strangely enough after all this discussion of ralph, the proper term for the hall into the arena is a leftover from the coliseums of ancient Rome) and get a decent view of the stage. Shoot, by the numbers, I made about as much working Bowie as it would have cost for an upper level ticket, and I got a better spot. Once in a while an usher will flex the authority handed to them by a family tree of supervisors, and shoo me away. Most aren’t petty enough to take such a rent-a-cop posture, though. We’re all making a pittance, we might as well enjoy ourselves.

I admire Neil Young for trying something different. Most large touring acts this season are bringing the crowds with a promise of little or no new material. Only the hits, the sing-a-longs, the classics, easy to swallow and already full of memories. Old Neil decided to not only bring his audience new material, but in the form of a total political stage concept.

The piece is called Glendale and it took up about three quarters of the show. I couldn’t quite put together the story, but the concept is basically Neil Young and Crazy Horse, jamming out three chord vignettes, while what looked like a high school play was going on behind them. As Neil sang, actors mouthed the words to the songs and acted out the story. I think the basic theme was the unraveling of rural life along the oppressiveness of our growing police state. It was funky. The actors seemed like random friends of the family; hippies picked up along the way. I’m not sure if it was purposefully supposed to have that amateur community theater feel, but maybe it was an effective grass roots approach.

I think some of his fans had a different opinion, though. I heard grumbling in the men’s room about paying such and such an amount of money and wanting to hear “Heart of Gold”. I had to agree. Since I wasn’t able to sit and watch the story unfold, I also would have been happier to have some familiar tunes to push the dust mop to.

Neil and Crazy Horse jammed out though. Neil, hunched, strumming open chords and hitting his signature sloppy guitar solos. Crazy Horse, the ever faithful crew, ready to follow him off a cliff if that’s where the song took them. They were in their element. It was beautiful, in its way.

And of course he didn’t leave everyone hanging. After the players took their bows, and a short break, they came back for a twenty five minute review of the hits. We were called downstairs at that point so I listened to “Keep on Rockin’ In the Free World” from the deep and muffled backstage. I saw the encore from under the bleachers and behind a sea of black curtains, a view that not many are privy to, but not at all as glamorous as it sounds.

The Rod Stewart show was something else. The man gained new respect from me as the ultimate of showmen. I know, for some, it might be hard to get away from the urban legend about certain members of the Faces spilling bodily fluids into a certain Rod Stewart’s mouth, but rock and roll’s true nature is all about experimentation. This point is only compounded by the tees I saw people wearing to the David Bowie show. The shirts had pictures of Bowie with the caption “I Fucked Mick Jagger”. A front man without at least a touch of androgyny isn’t worth his salt. How do you woo the ladies if you don’t know what it’s like to be one? This is rock to it’s core.

The show started with bagpipes over the PA announcing his heritage. The curtain is drawn and BAM!! right into “Forever Young” followed by “Young Hearts”. I couldn’t believe it, he goes straight for the MIX 107 crowd. I think I myself heard both of those songs in the car that day. The show went on like that from there. Just when you think his bag of hits is empty, POW!! he pulls out another one. From “Do ya think I’m sexy” to “Maggie Mae” he played them all, and the crowd was eating it up! The guy has quite a few chart toppers in his repertoire. He has enough hits to tour well into old age, and then some. People would show up to see his preserved body in a glass casket with a CD playing, honestly. The vom I was in was directly in line with the stage so I’m thinking my view was at least worth a hundred bucks.

The theme of this tour was “From greatest hits, to the great American song book,” so it was a two part show divided by an intermission. The first half had Rod in jeans and an orange t-shirt on a stage in front of white screens projecting different colored Warhol Rods, like some eighties fashion runway. The ensemble was complete with a white tripod wireless mike stand that he could twirl around and a tall platinum blonde woman that played the tenor sax. He strutted to and fro, making sure no angle of the arena felt left out. On several of his songs he wouldn’t even sing the chorus, but left that to the crowd, who would fill in the blanks perfectly.

It seems like he went to the James Brown school of band leadership. Apparently he got some noise in his in-ear monitor from the guitar player switching from electric to acoustic. “What’s that fucking noise?” he chastised behind him, “People are paying to hear music, not fucking electronic noises!” He then turned back to the crowd smiling, “Well, I guess that just means you’ll get one more song then.” What a hot head. Honestly I didn’t hear anything out in the arena. It gave me a glimpse of what it would probably be like to be in his touring band.

The second half of the show brought the mood down. The set changed into a classic gold and black bandstand of the 30’s and 40’s, complete with a string section. Rod was in an untied and disheveled tuxedo with tails like he just came from a wedding reception. He sang some Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes, along with other standards, carefully and professionally recognizing the authorship of each. Kind of a snore, but strategically placed to allow for pee breaks before rounding up the last of his hits and bringing it home. Once again I caught the encore from the backstage.

I had been looking forward to David Bowie for some time before I worked the show. I had fantasies of quitting that night; clocking in, abandoning my walkie-talkie, and blending into the crowd. Thinking it through, I realized it would be easier to dodge my supervisor than it would be to dodge security, and just set my phasers on “Slack”.

Bowie had an opening act called “Polyphonic Spree”. An apt name for the band that boasted a membership of 22. They had two drummers, bass, a few guitars, piano, along with a selection of symphonic instruments: french horn, trombone, strings, trumpets. On top of that there was a 9 member choir. It was a very loud band! The music was kind of churchy inspirational emo, with lots of songs about trees and sunshine and “everything being all right”. Did I mention, they were fucking loud?!! Even touring with Bowie, I wondered how 22 people on tour could make any money.

I heard the opening riff to “Rebel, Rebel” and quickly breezed through my bathroom. Everything seemed in order; no drunken fights or shit smeared anywhere so I figured it would hold for the rest of the show. I settled into my vom, hand over my walkie talkie to both muffle the noise and feel the vibration of a call.

After a few songs, he played “Fashion,” not really a favorite of mine, and I was able to make an appearance and pretend to work for a minute. The best strategy is not to avoid the boss the whole time, but to actually periodically seek them out and make eye contact. If I spent the whole evening hiding, it would only give reason to look for me, or call me on the radio. The best game plan is to, every once in a while, say hello and try and discern what direction they are heading; figure out when they are making a trip to the office, or patrolling another level. I hope this article never makes it into the wrong persons hands. Prince is coming in September!

David Bowie’s set kind of fell in the middle of the three. He didn’t play all show stoppers like Rod Stewart, but he didn’t subject his audience to a completely new artistic vision either. He was confident enough to play some of his new material, but was also sensitive to the audience’s want for hits. After a string of new ones I remember him joking, “How ‘bout a song we know, huh?” He seemed to be genuinely having a good time.

“Rebel, Rebel,” “Fashion,“ “Fame, “ “Ashes to Ashes, “ “Quicksand, “ “China Girl, “ “Modern Love” his set satisfied. He even included an odd Pixies cover, “Cactus,” which I thought interesting. In between songs he recounted stories of his first trips to the U.S.; seeing Elvis at Madison Square Garden, and the first time he heard one of his songs on the car radio in San Francisco (he was screaming out the window at passers by, “This is my song, this is my song!!). I realized the scope of his career when he introduced “Modern Love” as not an old one but not a new one either. The song is twenty years old.

Once again I was called down to “the cage” for the encore, so in that dark tunnel, under the bleachers I heard the big ones from “Ziggy”. “Five Years” into “Suffragette City” into “Ziggy Stardust”. I was struck with a strange mix of emotions, under those seats and behind the curtains. I looked down at my name tag and contemplated the would be acting career of my early twenties, and my more recent foray as a bedroom rock star. For years I thought I was destined to be a celebrity, only to realize fame was not in fate’s design. As Bowie concludes his show with a story about the destructiveness of the spotlight, I feel my own Ziggy slowly dying; the alter ego that will break free from this janitors costume. I guess I am a celebrity of my own ironic story, and can’t help but have a small laugh at my own expense.

I think I have found power in this small piece of candor, and I hope it finds its audience. This is for everyone that thinks any show over 5 dollars isn’t worth it. This is for the bedroom composers that believe if the right person heard their work, they would be catapulted to the top. This is also for the ones that discover that life behind the curtains, though not quite what they thought they wanted, is the only place to be. To anonymity, amen.

Nigel is a smart, saucy man who is currently looking for work outside of his bodily fluid maintenance. He also does a lot of hard work for MLP, and his girlfriend. He doesn’t take no guff.